


Temptation (Is Like a Knife)

by orphan_account



Series: Kink_Bingo [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Community: kink_bingo, Gore, Guro, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:02:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles nods and raises the knife again; he brings the point to the other side of Peter's chest, pressing in without hesitation and twisting it as he goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temptation (Is Like a Knife)

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for my guro square on my kink bingo card; this isn't really my think, so it's not especially hardcore guro, but still--extensive knife play and bleeding.

“So…” Stiles’ fingers trail tentatively over Peter’s skin, caked in dirt and smelling like a full moon spent rolling in the forest. He grins and licks his lips and tastes the same scent there, as well, swallows it. “You’re immortal.”

Peter grins, devilish and teeth terrifyingly long. “Indeed.”

Stiles sits up, ignoring his own nudity and instead relishing Peter’s own. “And you can delay your healing.”

“If that’s what you want.” Peter tells him honestly. “Do you want that, Stiles?” He leans in as well, and tickles a wet tongue up Stiles’ neck and around the shell of his ear.

“Y-yeah,” Stiles answers breathlessly. “Yeah.” He curls away from Peter’s embrace and instead reaches under his pillow. “I, we need something to do this on. I’m not washing blood outta my sheets.”

“The bathroom, then.” Peter says lightly, pulling Stiles by the arm and steering him towards the single bathroom. He reaches past the curtain and starts the spray, hot and steaming from the get go. “After me,” he quips, slipping under the spray and sliding to sit on the floor. “Come along, Stiles.”

Stiles laughs, sinking to his knees over Peter’s lap. “You’re such a creep.” He tells Peter, fingers curled around the knife. “But thank you.” Stiles’ voice falls hushed as he breathes over Peter’s skin. They watch the filth of nature dribble away down the drain, leaving red, heat-flushed skin in its wake. “Thank you for letting me do this.” Stiles gasps, brandishing the knife carefully, bringing the tip to Peter’s chest.

Peter relaxes, fingers splayed on Stiles’ hips, as he feels the first puncture just above his heart. Stiles presses in the blade, grunting with exertion as the skin attempts to heal itself around the puncture. Blood trickles out from the wound, cascades over the subtle definition of Peter’s abdominal and turns the water in the tub pink. The knife sinks in further, less slowed by the healing at Peter’s will.

Pain flashes sharply through him, ricochets through his veins and works a tired groan from him. Stiles gasps and presses his cock down on Peter’s own, rutting against him like a dog. “Oh, god, Peter.” Stiles is shaking, arms taut as the knife can go no further. Tantalizingly slow, Stiles drags the knife out again, and holds it to his face to peer at the bloody metal. Stiles then turns his gaze to the hole in Peter’s chest, knitting together but bleeding worse than before.

Stiles lets out a shaky exhale, his cock lets out a few drops of precome. “Harder, Stiles,” Peter commands, “do it.”

Stiles nods and raises the knife again; he brings the point to the other side of Peter’s chest, pressing in without hesitation and twisting it as he goes. He feels hypersensitive, hyperaware, of the way muscles and veins get caught and twisted and ripped inside Peter’s chest, snapping like firecrackers to heal. He shudders, rutting harder, as he begins to press the knife in, and out, and in and out. Blood flows freely, catching on Stiles’ fingertips and staining the white walls of the bathtub.

“Come for me Stiles.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I—I want, I want,” he makes to pull the knife out, “keep it open,” he asks, letting the knife clatter behind him as he presses greedy fingertips to the hole, unhealed. “Oh god,” he sounds choked up, probably by the metallic scent of blood clogging his senses and the bathroom, mixing with the wet heat of the steam. His thumb slips inside, followed by another finger, two, thrusting in and drawing out more blood.

“Taste it.” Peter demands, his own hips rocking up against Stiles’.

A shrill moan rips from his throat as Peter grips his hand and smears the blood across Stiles’ lips. Stiles comes between them, his come tainted pink as it mixes with the mess of blood. Peter groans, watching as Stiles sucks down his own fingers, and laps at the taste. Peter comes untouched, eyes foggy and allowing the hole in his chest to heal.

Stiles falls on him, grinning and mumbling contentedly under the purr of the shower. “Good?”

“Perfect.”

Peter laughs and strokes his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “Next time we can lace the knife with wolfsbane.”


End file.
